


Seasons

by tjs_whatnot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 13:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6117986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjs_whatnot/pseuds/tjs_whatnot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A time for war and a time for peace. A time to be silent and a time to speak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seasons

* * *

**Spring**

* * *

Having spent the majority of her life in medicine, Poppy Pomfrey couldn’t help but mark time by the accompanying ailments. Spring was devoted mostly to broken bones, pulled muscles and all those things caused by overexertion as people went from the dormant winter to the chaos of warmer weather.

Summer was full of horrible hex mishaps and potions gone wrong as students crammed for their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. This was followed by other mishaps as hormones exploded and every day seemed to bring another love-scarred teen needing a cure for the ache of love, unrequited or erroneously transmitted. 

Autumn saw run-of-the-mill Muggle symptoms of runny noses, sneezing and allergies. The various advances of both magic and technology had yet to find the cure to the seemingly easiest of sicknesses. 

Winter was the hardest for Poppy and her training in medicine as it also lacked suitable cures. Depression. Malaise. General humdrums.

In her own life, she had found things that lessened the side-effects of winter, but it was impossible to prescribe a nice cup of tea and a roaring fire to people and be taken seriously as a professional. Besides, there were some symptoms that weren't skin deep, that went to the bone. These were not cured with warmth and sweetness. For the longest time, those were the hardest cases.

Now though, now she knew those were nothing compared to the most incurable of all.

Age.

She had heard that compared to seasons as well, but it had never resonated with her before like it did now. The spring of childhood when everything was fresh and new; the summer when your hormones exploded and life was awash with adventure; the autumn of middle age when excitement become comfort, consistency and _peace._ Winter… well, she hadn’t got to the winter just yet, but she wasn’t overly rushed to get there, she had too many fond memories of her Spring. To where it had all begun. 

Of course, back then, she had no idea that walking into Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry at the beginning of her fifth year, a new student and an oddity from the onset, would change everything, would set the groundwork for every step, every relationship that she’d had since.

Back then, she was just an awkward fifteen-year-old going to yet another new school and being the outcast. At least this time, she wouldn’t be the only weirdo who could do magic. She would be surrounded by weirdos who could do magic.

“Miss Pomfrey?”

She turned around and almost staggered. The girl, no _woman_ standing before her was stunning. She towered over her, slim in that way that screamed delicate, but the look in her dark, piercing eyes as they looked down the long, sharp nose suggested that to doubt her strength would very much be Poppy’s undoing.

Poppy swallowed, terrified as to how much all of that supposing showed on her own face. “Yes? That’s me, but please, call me Poppy.”

The woman smiled and everything shifted, as if the sun had shone into the stained glass windows of the castle for the first time, brilliant and charged. “Welcome to Gryffindor Tower. I’m Minerva McGonagall, call me Minnie if you wish an early death.” Poppy’s eyes bulged and she swallowed hard. But Minerva smiled and so Poppy relaxed and nodded.

“I suppose Professor Dumbledore showed you around the school and directed you here?”

“Yes, in a bit of a whirlwind. He’s a bit--”

“Of a nutter? Yes. Bless him. But he’s also brilliant. The best professor we have here.”

“What does he teach again?”

“Transfiguration. My favorite subject. Oh, I’m sorry, where _are_ my manners? Hello, I’m the Gryffindor Prefect and Head Girl.”

“So that makes you… seventh year?”

“Right? Exactly; was that the system your previous school used as well?”

“Not exactly, no. I’ve just been reading up.”

“Ah, lovely. A smart one. We Gryffs need more of that sort. Can’t let Ravenclaw have all the brains, not when they also have all the loveliest ladies, now can we?” She winked.

Poppy swallowed again, something fluttered inside her and perhaps made her bold. “Oh, I don’t know, they don’t seem to have _all_ the loveliest ladies.”

“Not anymore,” Minerva said with a smile and it was understood between the two of them. Poppy had never had it happen this easily. The only other time she’d been that bold and had sent out the feelers, they had not been received with a smile, not even remotely. She sighed, this was exactly the new start she was hoping she’d have.

“Shall I show you to your room?”

“Yes, please. Where is everyone?”

“Sorting ceremony. The first-years all gather in the Great Hall and wear the Sorting Hat. Basically, what you did in Dippet’s office, only in front of the whole school.”

Poppy shuddered. The idea of standing up in the front of the school when so much was unknown, when you didn’t even know where you belonged or what Hogwarts was about made her a bit queasy. “Blimey, but I’m glad I didn’t have to go through that.”

Minerva’s smile was sympathetic and Poppy wondered how much of her story the other girl had got when she was assigned to welcome her. “It’s not so bad. I mean, at eleven, when you’re young and everything is new, it’s a bit terrifying, but only for a minute. You are surrounded by other firsties who are thinking and feeling the same and the shared panic makes it liveable. And then the Hat shouts out where you belong and your housemates cheer boisterously and welcome you to their ranks and you just…” She sighed. “You are _home_.”

Poppy was mesmerized and oddly bereft that she had missed out on that. She’d never felt _home_ anywhere. “Sorry I missed it,” she whispered.

Minerva put her arm around Poppy and walked her to the stairs. “Don’t you worry. We here in Gryffindor will make you feel like home in no time. We girls have to take care of each other, yes?”

“Yes,” Poppy answered, the fluttering starting in her stomach again, this time spreading through her. _Yes, we do_.

And they did. All of them. Her fifth-year classmates, the rest of the Gryffindors who made her feel like she’d always been there. But especially Minerva and her closest friends, her girls, Pomona Sprout from Hufflepuff and Septima Vector from Ravenclaw, all of them seventh-years and prefects. Other than that, though, they seemed to have very little in common. 

Pomona was a very earthy girl, loved nature, plants and being outdoors amongst living, growing things. She was short and muscular and had the heartiest laugh Poppy had ever heard. Septima was more for the library and books and had a thing for numbers that almost made them seem romantic and wise. Poppy had never thought of numerical digits in that way, but Septima had a way of making everything intriguing. 

She was tall and thin with the most voluptuous chest that Poppy had ever seen. Poppy had to stop herself from staring at it from across the table when they were studying, and it was nearly impossible when Septima was sitting beside her, bent over a number chart.

Poppy wasn’t even close to the only one who spent a fair bit of their time in Septima’s presence being distracted by her effortless beauty. Minerva sometimes had to have things repeated to get her out of the daze that she covered up by chewing on the side of a quill as if deep in thought, her book open but ignored before her. Poppy wondered if she was the only one who noticed the way that Minerva watched Septima. She reasoned she might be, but only because — for as much time as Poppy spent watching Septima, too — she spent even more watching Minerva’s every move. 

Minerva didn’t ooze sexuality like Septima did, and she wasn’t classically beautiful; she had very few curves and many more edges. Her neck was long and her black hair pulled back almost all the time. But still, Poppy was mesmerized by her, by her smile, her accent, her determination and adventurous spirit. Poppy just wanted to spend her time with Septima gazing upon her, but with Minerva? Poppy spent half her time wanting to be _with_ Minerva, and the other half wanting to just _be_ her. 

Poppy was new to so many of the thoughts and feelings these two women instilled. She’d known she preferred women for a long time, about as long as she’d realized that gender existed. That knowing had never got her anything but grief and hardship, had never given her even a moment of happiness, of peace. But now, there with them, there was a feeling of beyond happiness, beyond peace. She didn’t have a name for it, couldn’t describe it if she tried, but she had remembered the way that Minerva had said _You are home_ , and that was the closest she could get to articulating it.

She had thought that the thing that must have drawn these three friends from different houses – even back then, inter-house friendships were rare, especially close friendships – was their mutual queerness. 

Then she met Alastor Moody.

A lifetime later, and she can still set the entire scene as if she were peering into a Pensieve each and every time. They were in the library, Minerva was trying to talk the librarian into letting her remove a book from the Restricted Section, Pomona searching for a book they needed for Ancient Runes and she and Septima were at a table in the corner, Septima studying Poppy’s number chart and Poppy studying the line of Septima’s neck and the curve of her ear.

Someone standing in front of the table cleared his throat and Poppy and Septima looked up. He was tall and thin with long ginger hair. He was wearing Gryffindor robes but Poppy, who had been there for months by then, had never seen him before. Which was odd. In addition to being rather stunning looking, he also had a strap of leather crossing his shoulder to hip and she could see the hilt of a sword over his shoulder. The man stood out, as if Godric Gryffindor had come back to Hogwarts. And as he moved to sit down, his robes opened, of course he was wearing a holster for his wand and something that looked like a dagger hanging from the other hip.

“‘Tima,” he growled by way of greeting.

Poppy was waiting for Septima to rage at him. Poppy had heard her, Minerva and Pomona rant against nicknames, pet names and shortening of names. She had witnessed what happened to someone foolhardy enough to call Minerva “Minnie” and it wasn’t pretty. Same for people who tried to call Pomona “Mona,” though, sometimes Minerva did in such a way that it caused Pomona to blush instead of bristle. 

Septima seemed to have the same reaction to this man calling her Tima. Her whole face flushed, but Poppy saw in her eyes that it was neither anger nor fondness; it was something that Poppy had never witnessed first-hand. Passion. She could feel the heat radiating from Septima and could feel herself diminish in both their eyes. She was so obviously removed from the notice of either of them who only seemed to see each other, that Poppy was shocked when he asked, “Who’s your friend?”

Septima still didn’t take her eyes off his when she answered. “Poppy Pomfrey. She’s a fifth-year in your own house, you’ve never meet her?”

“Been busy,” he growled.

“Poppy, this is Alastor Moody.”

“Hello,” she said in a whisper. She needn’t have bothered. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off Septima. Poppy was getting increasingly uncomfortable. It was like watching people grope and pet in front of her and yet these two weren’t even touching, weren’t even sitting close enough that they could if they had wanted. But that was just it, it was the _wanting_ that Poppy felt, that oozed from them like the sparks in their eyes that saw nothing but each other. 

“You hear about Mulciber?” Alastor growled under his breath.

“It was in the _Prophet_. Killed his entire family,” Septima answered with a shudder. “I can’t believe he’s the same person we knew.”

“We never knew any of them. Just ‘cause we had classes, shared meals with ‘em, don’t mean shit.”

Septima narrowed her eyes again. “Is this about your _theory_?”

“Not just a theory anymore. Got Dumbledore convinced. I tell you, Tima, that Slug Club is more than a blowhard professor and his favorite pure-bloods getting together for tea and conversation. It’s a recruiting scheme. Started with that Riddle fella.”

“Tom Riddle? Head Boy, star pupil Tom Riddle? You _must_ be joking!”

“Just come with me tonight. Bring your friends.”

“Where?”

He tilted his head as way of indicating he was speaking of Poppy even when he didn’t look at her. “She can be trusted?”

Septima barked a laugh but Poppy bristled and stood up. “She can be. And she can hear, think and speak for herself and everything. Now, if you’ll excuse her.”

She walked away and went looking for Minerva. She found her in the next row of books, looking through the shelf to Septima and Alastor’s table. Their heads were now almost touching and he seemed frantic to convince her of something.

“What’s he on about now?” Minerva whispered when Poppy stood beside her.

“I have no idea. He’s a bit…”

“Intense?”

“That’s one word for it,” Poppy whispered.

“He’s a bit like Dumbledore. Totally barking and totally brilliant.”

“Are he and Septima...?”

“Sleeping together?”

“No! I mean, I was just wondering if they were a couple. I didn’t want to know…”

“Well, sleeping together is a more accurate description of what those two are.”

Poppy gulped. She hadn’t thought about that. She’d thought about Septima before, fantasized about her, but never with anyone else and certainly not with a _man_. It was like a punch in the gut, like discovering that all she believed to be true was a lie. 

“Poppy?”

She snapped out of her thoughts. “Sorry, I just…” She couldn’t finish that thought.

“I know, the idea of those two together affects me the same way,” Minerva said, then sighed. “Such a waste.”

Poppy leaned into her with a laugh. Leave it to Minerva to read her mind and voice it so surely.

The couple at the table sat for a few more minutes before Alastor looked all around, stood up and swept out of the room, his robes swishing around his feet.

Minerva snorted. “If he wants to be inconspicuous, he should stop flouncing quite so much, yes?”

Poppy laughed again.

“You two can come back to the table now,” Septima said, looking over her shoulder to where Poppy and Minerva were behind the shelf.

Poppy blushed as they approached, but Minerva stood tall. “I know how you two love your clandestine meetings. And what dangerous, foolhardy thing does he want us to attempt this time?”

“Not him,” Septima started and then lowered her voice. “Dumbledore.”

They waited until Pomona joined them before Septima cast a Silencing Charm and told them what Alastor had said.

“Dumbledore is looking for a group of students whom he trusts to gather and discuss what is happening.”

“What is happening?” Poppy asked, suddenly remembering how young she was in comparison.

“Not much, yet. Just the beginnings. But Dumbledore has been here before, has seen how it starts and says we’re in the beginnings of it happening again. He wants to be prepared this time and… I don’t think he wants to do it alone.”

“What is he suggesting?” Pomona asked, still whispering despite the charm protecting them.

“I’m not sure. I imagine he wants to start a group of like-minded students to counteract the one Professor Slughorn seems to be organizing. Mostly he seems to be sending Alastor out to gauge interest.”

“Not sure that was the best choice for recruitment purposes,” Minerva huffed.

“Nor I, to be honest,” Septima agreed. “Half the school are convinced he’s a nutter and the other half are terrified of him.”

“Still, if Dumbledore is heading it…” Pomona began. They all nodded in agreement.

* * *

**Summer**

* * *

Minerva had always believed there was one sure-fire way to fall in love with your homeland after growing up in it: show it to someone. Live vicariously through another’s discovery of what you’ve long ago taken for granted and you are reminded of all that makes it spectacular, as if giving you permission to marvel yourself.

She had discovered this early in her Hogwarts’ career, the first year she had brought Pomona home for the holidays. She had spent the first three days squealing at every little thing. Poppy was no different.

Maybe, though, it was the experience of the flying carpet. Minerva and Poppy had never travelled that way before, but Septima had loaned them hers and they had jumped at the chance. For the first time ever, Minerva wished she lived farther away from Hogwarts; the trip was almost over before it had begun.

Minerva pointed out the lights glittering in the small hamlet deep in the Highlands that was her home.

Poppy took her hand. “Maybe we could take the long route?”

Minerva looked at her younger friend and the pleading in her eyes. “We most certainly can. We are, after all, adults. We can do anything we want.”

They both laughed. Then they both threw themselves on either side of the carpet, flat on their stomachs, looking over the edge at the wilderness of rocks and trees that made up the mountains below them. It was exhilarating. Minerva pointed out the landmarks she could recognize from their viewpoint. She hadn’t ridden these skies too many times before: once on a Thestral and a handful of times on a broom. But this was much different. More peaceful, secure and much better company.

They rolled over on their backs, lying side by side, their hands reaching for each other again as they watched the stars zoom by. The carpet must have sensed their desire to stay in the skies; it had markedly slowed its speed. Minerva turned to her side, wrapping her other hand around Poppy’s arm.

“I’m so glad you decided to come spend the summer with me. I’ve missed you.”

Poppy turned her head. Minerva could see the fear that Poppy wore like a robe whenever they got close was still shrouded around her. It disappeared after a moment and was replaced with a smile. “I missed you, too.”

In the two years since Minerva had left Hogwarts, she’d been back more than most former students, both on official business — she had talked Professor Dumbledore into being her mentor — and on unofficial, clandestine meetings with the group Dumbledore and Moody had started her last year at school. Most of the students recruited had left Hogwarts the year that she had — Dumbledore was less willing to put children in harm’s way back then — so they met outside of the grounds, at the Hog’s Head, newly purchased by Albus’ somewhat estranged brother, Aberforth.

Sometimes she went on missions, mostly reconnaissance as there was no official threat as of yet, just information gathering. Still, it was thrilling and put her in the thick of things. Usually she was accompanied on these missions by Septima. A few times with her and Alastor, which hadn't been Minerva’s favorite missions; nothing like being a third wheel while holed up in remote lodgings in Romania, questioning the local vampires about stirrings in their midst. Pomona accompanied her a few times when her expertise came in handy. She wasn’t cut out for espionage, but her skills and knowledge in plants and fungi that could kill you were very useful.

Then, during last Easter’s holiday, she had finally relented to let Poppy join her on a seemingly safe mission and consequently found her favorite partner. She knew Poppy was easy to talk to, laugh with, and someone she could trust with her innermost thoughts; those were useful things while being holed up in a safe house waiting for an emissary that never arrived. She also knew Poppy could take orders without mucking up the works by second-guessing and questioning; it helped that Minerva had never given her reason to doubt her. 

What Minerva hadn't been aware, but later discovered that summer, when they were _supposed_ to be having a quiet holiday away from all the pressures of training for a career or being sent on missions, was how up for a challenge she was, how reckless she could be when the situation asked for it — which was more often than Minerva was comfortable with sometimes — and how very fearless.

But the best thing she discovered was how very cool she was in a crisis. Even when — Minerva discovered the hard way — blood and gore was involved.

And of course, Alastor Moody was there too.

It was only a week into the summer holidays and Minerva refused to admit that she was already bored. She sensed Poppy was as well. She remembered that first holiday after finishing school, how restless you were to get on with your life, how everyday not doing something felt wasted, even if what you really needed was a place and some time to rest up, prepare. She still felt that way when she allowed herself too much time away from her studies, from her calling—as she’d got used to thinking of it.

“Want to see something amazing?” Minerva asked one day while they were enjoying an early evening tea in the garden. Poppy was staring out to the mountains seemingly in a daze, her book forgotten.

“Always.”

Minerva stood up, straightened to a rigid point, took a deep breath, raised her wand and waved it precisely.

There was a pop, but it was drowned out by Poppy’s gasped scream as Minerva transformed into a human-sized cat.

Minerva looked down at herself, growled and changed back. She cursed before blushing.

“That was amazing!” Poppy exclaimed.

“It was supposed to be. I was supposed to be cat-sized.”

“I gather that, but still, that’s spectacular! How long have you been working on that?”

“Properly? About six months. It’s the hardest thing I’ve attempted in Transfiguration. It’s no wonder there aren’t many of them around. It takes dedication and lots and lots of trial and error.”

“And you’ve been doing it on your own?”

“Well, Dumbledore had to approve the training. They’re very strict on who becomes an Animagus and why. It takes a lot of dedication and they need to make sure you are willing to take it on. Thankfully, I didn't really have too much trouble convincing Dumbledore how hard I was willing to work. And of course he saw the benefits of having someone who could be a cat in his ranks.”

“And do you pick your animal, or is it like the Patronus?”

“I really think you have more choice in these things than you would think. I’ve yet to meet anyone whose Patronus or Animagi form was a creature they didn’t feel some kinship to. I didn’t specify when creating the incantation that I wanted to be a cat, but let’s face it, I have pretty cat-like tendencies.”

“That’s true. You are very feline. Sleek and stealthy. Lover of fish.”

“Like to sleep in the sun,” Minerva added.

“Have your belly rubbed.”

Minerva smiled wickedly. “Maybe later, darling.”

Poppy blinked, that fear flashing in her eyes momentarily, but then blushed and smiled.

The girl was really too easy to tease. Maybe someday soon she’d just reach over and kiss her and get the awkward part over with. There was no doubt in Minerva’s mind that one day — and it would be a day soon — they would be lovers. She also knew they would be brilliant at it.

Just as she was contemplating going to Poppy and taking her hand, a small figure flew over the horizon and sailed towards them at such a speed, there was no chance that its destination could be anywhere else.

“Blimey, that’s not an owl, is it?” Poppy asked.

Minerva held her hand up to shield her eyes from the setting sun. “It can’t be, it’s going way too fast.”

“Well, it better slow down, change its setting or we better MOVE!” Poppy shouted that last line, standing and jumping, taking Minerva with her as the bird swooped right over their heads. Poppy and Minerva rolled down the slight hill, Minerva cursing the whole way.

“Bloody, fekkin’ hell! What was that?”

Poppy looked behind them to where the large bird stood, head tilted, looking at them as if it couldn’t understand what the commotion was about. “Is that a falcon?”

Minerva cursed some more. “Blasted Alastor!”

“What? That’s Alastor?” Poppy asked, pointing to the bird, their discussion about Animagi obviously still fresh in her mind.

“No, he’d never pass the test, the nutter. That’s his bird. Owls are just too ordinary for that man.”

They got to their feet and dusted themselves off. “I’m going to give him such shite next time he tries to lecture me on the ways in which to be inconspicuous.”

She stormed over to the bird and held out her hand. “Well, then, give it here.”

The falcon studied her for a moment before presenting its leg. Minerva removed the scrap of parchment, scanned its contents and her whole demeanor changed instantly. She gasped, bringing her fingertips to her lips.

_Kent. Come at once. Bring your med kit._

She read it twice before she looked at Poppy, grabbed her hand and dragged her towards the house. “Run and fetch a medical kit. Meet me at the broom shed.”

“What happened?” Poppy asked, holding tight to Minerva’s hand and forcing her to stop and explain.

“I don’t know. He just says he needs help, which he’s never admitted before, and he says to bring a med kit… but…” She had tears in her eyes.

“But what…?”

“He wrote the note.”

“Yeah?”

“If he could write a note, how hurt could he be? He’d never ask for help for himself unless he was too injured to be able to ask. So who is hurt?”

Now Poppy covered her mouth. “Septima.”

Without a word, they split. Poppy ran to collect what they might need in way of medical supplies —magical and non —Minerva ran to get weapons. They met at the broom shed minutes later.

“Why are we flying there? Can’t we just Apparate? We’d probably only need a few jumps,” Poppy said.

“We will Apparate until we get close, but if I know Alastor, he’ll have wards set up to prevent Apparition within a mile of his place. We’ll take the brooms the rest of the way.”

Poppy nodded and took Minerva’s hand and with a pop, they were gone.

They flew to the place that looked very much like an empty field, but immediately after dismounting the broom, Minerva took out her wand and began to pace around the field muttering incantations and spells, every once in a while throwing out a curse towards Alastor “the paranoid, neurotic, psychotic, maniac bastard!”

Finally, the wards dropped and there was a small log cabin in front of them and Alastor stood at the door waving them in.

“What happened?” Poppy asked.

“Where is she?” Minerva said over her, rushing past him.

She didn’t even give him time to respond and found Septima in the bedroom, curtains drawn, room dark. Poppy came in right behind her.

“What happened?” Poppy asked again, louder and more insistently.

“We were flying away from a known Riddle supporter’s house and were blasted off our brooms.”

Minerva gasped, but Poppy seemed to only be processing the information, not internalizing it. “How was her fall broken? Surely she didn’t fall from the sky, or she’d be dead, right?”

“No, I Levi’d her, but not before she’d had a few run-ins with some trees. I thought it was just bumps and bruises, but she went unconscious on me.”

He sounded scared, actual and honest-to-goodness fear in his voice. This endeared him to Minerva slightly, but she pushed that aside. “And how did you not fall to your death?”

“I held on to the biggest splinter of my broom that I could and thankfully there was enough magic still present to keep it in the air, or at least not to plummet to the ground.”

“Open the curtains,” Poppy ordered.

“We can’t. We are now wardless,” Alastor answered, and the fear still present in his voice overrode the paranoia that was always present.

Poppy looked like she wanted to argue violently, but instead she used her wand to light up the room. She sat perched carefully on the side of the bed beside her friend.

“How is she?” Minerva asked.

Poppy was checking her vitals, pushing her eyelid up with her thumb and waving her lit wand back and forth, checking her pulse with her finger tips at her wrist. Then she checked her head and neck with a feather-light touch before answering, “Too soon to tell. She has a massive bump on her head. Concussion, at least.”

She ran her wand over Septima, whispering healing spells that Minerva’d never heard before. They watched as the spells healed some of her minor cuts and bruises.

“I don’t sense any internal bleeding, but I need to wake her up.”

“Why?” Alastor asked.

Poppy turned to glare at him, but didn’t answer. Instead she ran her hands gently along Septima’s hairline. “Darling, can you open your eyes?”

Her eyes fluttered under her lids.

“That’s good. You can hear me. Can you feel this?” she began gently poking her feet, her knee, her stomach. Septima twitched at the touch. Poppy sighed with relief.

“I’m going to brew you something to drink, okay? Then I’ll tend to these wounds and you’ll be just fine. Just don’t move quite yet.”

Minerva wasn’t sure if Septima gave any sign that she heard any of this, but Poppy went about her tasks as if she had. Alastor, who was surprisingly looking a bit peeky, left the room. Minerva assumed he would be going about putting the wards back up.

“How do you…?” Minerva started.

Poppy looked up at her from the bag she was rummaging through.

“How do you know how to do all of this?”

Poppy shrugged. “I’ve seen a bit of this before. The rest…” She shrugged again.

Poppy continued to tend to Septima while Minerva sat beside her friend on the bed. She’d never seen her look so… damaged. It made it real, all of it, what they were doing, what was happening.

“How long before we can move her?” Moody asked from the other room. “I don’t feel safe here anymore.”

Minerva didn’t have it in her to argue with him or even scold him. She, too, felt less than safe.

“The potion is almost ready. After she drinks it, we only need a few hours to see enough of its effect to move her. But we’ll have to be careful.”

Poppy sat beside Septima on the other side from Minerva and gently slid her arm under her shoulders and lifted her slightly, holding her head with the crook of her elbow. She placed the cup to Septima’s lips and in a sing-song whisper coaxed her to open her lips just enough to get the liquid in and then to swallow it. She resisted it, but Poppy seemed to know she would and tightened her hold, pleading with her to swallow it down. “Just a little more… there you go… almost done…”

Poppy wiped the tiny amount of potion that escaped Septima’s lips and ran along her jawline with the corner of her robe. “That’s it. Now you can sleep.”

She got to work in the rest of her injuries while Minerva watched in a daze. She had taken Septima’s hand without realizing it.

“Minerva, can you do something for me?” Poppy asked.

“Anything.”

“Have you ever driven a car?”

“Once. Why?”

“I need you to get us a car.”

“What?”

“If we need to move her, there’s no way to do it in the next twelve hours with magical transport that wouldn’t be dangerous.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Take Alastor with you if you need to. Give him something to do. Let him do the actual stealing. Hell, maybe he’s even driven one.”

Minerva thought for a minute, then nodded, got up, and went out of the room. Alastor was sitting outside the room in a chair he’d moved to be as close as he could. He was slumped awkwardly in the chair and there was a sheen of sweat on his face.

“Alastor, are you okay?”

His only answer was a grunt. She looked at him more closely and that’s when she saw it: a pool of blood hidden in the dark of his robes.

“Poppy!”

She came out of the room at a run. Minerva pointed to the blood and Poppy pulled back the robes and gasped at what she saw. His shirt was drenched with blood and as Poppy tore it away; Minerva saw the biggest gape of torn flesh she’d ever seen at his hip. The skin around the hole was tinged with burn marks. “Alastor! You were hit!”

“’M fine.”

“Bullshit,” Poppy said. She pulled more of the shirt away from the wound, and he winced against the pain of the blooded skin pulling from the fabric.

If Minerva was impressed by Poppy’s efficiency before with Septima, she was awestruck by her when she looked up at Minerva, who felt a bit peaked at the sight of all that blood, and instantly knew what to do.

“Forget the car. I need you to go out and put the wards and spells around the house. We’re not going anywhere for a while.”

Minerva instantly did as she was told. The fresh air was a much-needed reprieve. She gulped it for a moment before she went about casting her best protections. That had been the last night she had thought of what they were doing as fun and games. She had known there were dangers, and she had actually been convinced of Alastor and Albus’ claims of a rise in evil and how it could be traced back to one person. But, still, she hadn’t taken it seriously as _dangerous_ until that night.

It was also the last night that she saw Poppy as anything but an equal. By the time Minerva got back in the house, Poppy had moved Alastor to the bedroom, cast a spell that would make sure Septima would not be disturbed by the movement and rustle on the other side of the bed, and had taken off most of Alastor’s clothes to further investigate the wound.

Minerva looked from him — avoiding looking at his wound — to Septima and back. They really did make a perfect couple. As much as Minerva had threatened Alastor that if he ever got her friend hurt he’d suffer her wrath, she knew that Septima was just as reckless, and just as culpable for the danger that they often found themselves in as Alastor. And now, here they were, lying beside each other, burned, bruised and battered and both looked oddly content.

“How is it?” she asked.

“It’s pretty bad. I need to stop the bleeding. I could make a salve, but I don’t have the time.”

“What do you need?”

Poppy looked at her and Minerva saw fear there for a moment, before determination set in again. “I’m going to have to cauterize the wound. I’ve given him something for the pain, but I doubt it will take it all away, and it’s going to leave a nasty scar.”

“Well, I doubt it will be his last. What can I do?”

“For now? Hold his hand.”

She did and watched as Poppy took a deep breath, whispered something to her wand and brought its hot tip to the wound. He gripped Minerva’s hand hard and jerked away from the burn, cursing loudly.

Poppy looked apologetic, but determined. “Almost done,” she whispered.

Minerva looked away from the skin sizzling under Poppy’s wand, the smell of the cooked flesh was enough to turn her stomach. Instead she took deep breaths through her mouth and focused on Alastor’s face. His eyes were rolling and he had stopped the screaming by biting down on his lower lip. His hand in hers was crushing.

Then it was over. Poppy wiped the sweat from her forehead before doing the same to Alastor. She whispered a soothing spell and his whole body stilled and he sighed, his eyes fighting to stay open.

“Sleep now,” she soothed, leaning down to rest her head for a moment on his chest. Minerva saw her wand hand was shaking. She rested her palm on the back of Poppy’s neck, willing some of her magic, some of her strength, into the woman’s exhausted and probably terrified body.

They stayed like that for a moment. Finally, when they thought Alastor was sleeping and they should leave the couple to it, Minerva removed her hand from Poppy and pulled her other from Alastor’s now feeble grip. Poppy raised her head too, but before she could sit up, Alastor opened his eyes and reached his hand to her face, stroking her cheek.

“My angel.”

She leaned into the caress for a moment. “Get some sleep.”

Minerva and Poppy closed the bedroom door and collapsed against each other. No words spoken, no sound but the soft sobs of relief, exhaustion and terror. They held onto each other desperately as if the only thing keeping them upright was the other’s support, the only thing keeping them alive was the beat of the other’s heart.

Later, Minerva will have no memory or how it happened, if it were she or Poppy who had started it, but even then, it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that they were kissing, were drowning out the world of the unknown with the taste of each other’s mouths, their skin.

They started a fire in the hearth; the wards in place would make the smoke from the chimney as invisible as the tiny cabin was. Minerva transformed the only armchair in the cabin not covered in Alastor’s blood to a comfortable feather mattress. They pulled it to the fire and, still without a word, they lay before the fire, limbs twisted and entwined, never wanting to be anywhere else.

* * *

**Autumn**

* * *

Pomona walked through the Hogwarts’ gates and made her way to the Hog’s Head. She repeatedly checked over her shoulders, quickening her step with each glance. Secretly she cursed Alastor. Even now, it seemed comforting to think this was all in his head, no matter that the world told her differently. She’d witnessed too much, lost too much to think it was illusion. Still, she had a hard time wrapping her mind around the fact that, by now, over half her life had been shrouded in detecting, protecting and fighting evil.

Was this what life was supposed to be?

When she walked into the inn and saw who would be accompanying her to the Order of the Phoenix meeting, her heart sank further. Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, James Potter and Peter Pettigrew. Babies. She had, only two days before, sent in their final grades—Es every single one of them, though she suspected a bit of cheating on Peter’s part.

 _This was what the war looked like now_ , she thought as they all beamed proudly at her. She had a hard time remembering that she and her friends had been even younger when they had been thrown into the Order, back before it even had a name.

A life— her life, her friends' lives— lived in the shadow of evil.

“Ready, boys?”

They nodded, their smiles instantly gone, suddenly more solemn than she had ever seen them before. _Yes, that’s what this does to you._

She shuddered and set off for the rendezvous point with the boys. She saw the quizzical looks they gave each other before she turned, as if a bit shocked that she was the one bringing them into the fold. She understood their confusion. She hardly seemed the type. To those young, bright Gryffindors just starting their lives as brave soldiers in this seemingly never ending war, she must look almost comical— old, and paunchy with soil under her nails and the smell of fertilizer and flora permeating from her every pore. What did aging herboligists know about such things as defense and weaponry? 

She imagined, with a twisted lip, how she could wipe those doubtful looks from their face with some of the tales she could tell, some of the poisons she could brew. But she could also bring them to tears, strike fear in those strong beating hearts with the accounts of cures she'd had to concoct, potions she'd had to create to combat the ever new and inventive ways wizards had dreamed up to destroy each other. She didn't want to scare them though, didn't want to fill them with doubts before they'd begun; those were stories for a later time, perhaps.

They only had two Apparition stops before they arrived at the Bones’. If they had been any other new recruits, they would have had a lot more hoops to jump. But Alastor, as Head of the Auror Department, already had his eye on a few of these boys. Pomona still couldn’t believe he had actually passed the psychological tests required for that career to begin with, though she knew he’d be good at it as it seemed perfectly suited for his particular mania.

She looked at these boys that Alastor thought of so highly, Sirius and James, and wondered and feared what a life under Alastor’s tutelage would do to them. But then they walked into the crowded room where the meeting would be taking place and she saw Lily Evans waiting for James, and Sirius lean into Remus. And as she scanned the room, she saw Minerva and Poppy huddled together in a whisper. Next to them, Septima held onto Alastor’s arm, staring into his good eye with adoration beaming from every feature of her face.

They’d be okay.

Life was dangerous and full of horrors. Evil was around every corner, seeking them out, filling them with fear. Death was always there, always waiting. But as long as there were friends, were things to fight for, lives that mattered to defend, there would be no way they would lose. She felt it in her bones. 

And while it might look to the outside world that she was alone in that room, all her friends paired off, leaving her out in the cold to fend for herself, she knew that was furthest from the truth of her life. Minerva called her over and she fitted herself in between the two couples, exactly where she belonged.

They listened as Dumbledore welcomed the new members, explained what the goal and purpose of the group was, and gave them all what Pomona had heard before, many times, a _very_ convincing pep talk. He talked about honor, and bravery, sacrifice and valor. At times like these, he was so Gryffindor that it was almost sickening. Of course, the mostly Gryffindor crowd ate it all up. She herself wasn’t immune to his rallying cries. Wasn’t that what got her there to begin with, all those many years ago? She looked at her friends. Yes, being singled out by the great man might have been what brought her there, but he wasn’t what kept her fighting.

After Dumbledore welcomed the crowd and filled them with purpose, it was Alastor’s turn to get up and scare the shite out of them. Remind them what was at stake now that the enemy had a name--Death Eaters--and were no longer only torturing and murdering Muggles. He did his job really well.

After that, he rounded up the young men and women just starting the fight and gave them their missions. Pomona and her friends, most of them now colleagues— Dumbledore did like to keep his allies close— sat around talking, waiting for last-minute instructions of their own. Pomona, Septima and Poppy’s first year as teachers and matron had just ended and now they could get back to the job of spy, intelligence and soldier. Minerva had been teaching since Dumbledore was given the position as Headmaster.

Pomona listened as Septima talked of her and Alastor’s plans to spend the summer searching for He Who Must Not Be Named and rounding up as many of his followers as they could. Poppy was headed to St. Mungo’s to help out in the Curse Ward. There were more and more Unforgiveable victims and they needed all the help they could get to soothe the Cruciatus effects and detect false claims of Imperius. Minerva would be at the Ministry, looking for spies in the ranks. Pomona suspected that her summer job would be more of what she had been doing before her teaching position had begun— tending to the victims, the displaced and orphaned.

She didn’t begrudge any of her friends’ more adventurous and dangerous exploits. She knew that, while their jobs might sound better when retold, it was the faceless, often times thankless job of the caretaker that mattered more. Sure, she wouldn’t be the one to end the war, but she’d be there to pick up the pieces when it was over. She was very comfortable in that role.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Dumbledore said when she told him the same. “I really couldn’t think of anyone more capable and perfect for the job.”

Pomona blushed. After all these years, despite it all, there were times she was still awed by Dumbledore. 

He went on. “This year, you won’t even have to pack your bags.”

“Sorry?”

“We’re moving the widows and orphans into the castle while it’s empty this summer.”

“At Hogwarts?” she asked.

“Yes. Where safer? We’ve discovered a band of Death Eaters a bit more kind and gentle than their counterparts that are using the grief and hopelessness they themselves caused to try luring the victims to their side. Promising them that Voldemort will protect them where we can’t.”

Pomona swore under her breath. “Sorry.”

Dumbledore laughed. “I quite agree, dear. But you'll have a chance to remind them what it was before Voldemort, remind them of what's worth living and fighting for. Take them to your gardens; let them see how to nurture life once again.” 

She nodded before asking, “What will happen to them when term begins again?”

“Hopefully, you will be able to find permanent homes for them during the holiday.” He raised his hand against the protest rising in her throat. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’ll make sure you have the staff and resources to accomplish it. Trust me.”

She swallowed. That had always been the only thing he need say to her, to any of them. _Trust me_.

“With my life,” she whispered.

Of course, when she saw who he sent to be her “staff” she couldn’t help grumble, “I see how it is, old man.”

Women. Wives, girlfriends, mothers. Some of them, like Lily Evans and Alice Longbottom were part of the Order; others, like Molly Weasley and Iris Brown, young wives and mothers volunteering to do their part the only way they could.

And some of them, like Lily and Alice, who were also in Auror training, resented being sent to her for “women’s work” while their husbands and soon-to-be husbands got to do the “real” work. She understood. She remembered how many fights and arguments Septima and Alastor had got into in the years since they’d first begun. Back then, Alastor had begged her not to engage in the sort of reckless behavior that he himself sought out, before he had given up that particular fight.

Just because the role of caretaker would probably always be considered to be work only for women in the Wizarding world, no matter how much she and her like-minded sisters bristled against it, didn’t mean that all women were cut out for it. Septima sure wasn’t, neither was Minerva.

At first, Pomona was convinced Lily and Alice weren’t, either. Lily would do what was asked of her, as long as it weren't anything to do with cooking or mending. Meanwhile, Alice found her calling in the garden. She seemed to really enjoy tending to it with the refugees desperate for something to do, some sense of normalcy.

Also, Pomona showed her how to nurture and maintain her very own Poison Garden.

In the end though, it was the orphans who wore them down. They always did. It was impossible not to see that what you were doing had value when you saw a child who had lost everything and had no reason to ever be happy or whole again smile at you, cling to you when the fear got too much. There was nothing to help you remember what it is you were doing and what it all was for like orphans.

Years later, the irony of that would take Pomona’s breath away.

* * *

**Winter**

* * *

Her friends found her crumpled in a heap in the bedroom of the house that she and Alastor had shared. She had felt it the minute he had gone from this Earth. No one had to tell her, or show her his body, broken beyond even the skill of his angel, Poppy.

Now Poppy played the role of her angel as she picked Septima up off the floor, holding her boneless frame in her strong arms.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Septima asked.

They didn’t answer, but the tears in their eyes said it all.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” she whispered. It wasn’t. It was supposed to have happened long before, many times before. She was supposed to be right there beside him, breathing their last together. That was how she imagined it for so long.

Poppy held her for a little longer, their shared sobs reverberating through the room. Then it was Pomona holding her, then Minerva. These friends who had been through it all with her.

When they had cried all they could, Septima looked around. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What? Where?” they all asked together.

She shrugged. “Anywhere. He always hated this house. Hated anything that made him normal, made him just like everyone else. Domestic with a permanent residence wasn't for him. I was crazy to think they were.”

As she talked, her grief turned to rage. “Let’s go to the Hog’s Head.”

She needed to do something, but she felt she needed a little fortification before she began.

“The Hog’s Head?” Minerva asked, incredulously. “Why?”

“Is that safe?” Pomona asked.

“Fuck if I care,” Septima spat. “They might win the war, they might take each of us out one by one, but they haven’t yet. Until then, I need to talk to someone and I need a drink.”

They all looked at each other and then her. Then Minerva said, “All right, let’s go.”

She was about to just Apparate, but she stopped, hearing Alastor in her ear, “Constant Vigilance!” Instead, she went to the fireplace. Throwing in the powder and sticking her head in, she shouted, “Aberforth!”

After a moment she heard him stamping over to the fire. “Yeah?”

“All clear?”

“Of course. Come, if you’re coming.”

She turned to her friends and, without a word, they all Apparated.

“What happened?” was his way of greeting.

She didn’t know if he was just asking because he could see they had been crying or because he had heard any whispered rumors.

Septima turned to Minerva, realizing at that moment that she didn’t know what had happened, how it had happened. She went behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of Ogden’s and five glasses that she Scourgified without a thought.

Minerva began, “The Order went to pick up Potter. He’s still underage so he has the Trace. They concocted a ruse to get him safely to The Burrow. Somehow, someone not to be trusted found out. They were surrounded by Death Eaters and You Know Who.”

“And Potter?”

“He’s safe, last I heard. One of the twins was injured and Moody… Alastor… was lost.”

“Lost?” Septima asked, a fluttering of what felt like hope alighted in her chest. “As in, not found?”

Pomona reached for her hand then said in a pained whisper, “It was the Killing Curse, issued by You Know Who himself.”

And the hope died painfully in her chest. She was having a hard time breathing. She poured herself a shot and passed the bottle to the others to pour for themselves.

The alcohol's burn brought her breath back in a gasp.

After all had filled their glasses, Aberforth raised his glass. “To Alastor.”

They all mumbled their agreement and drained their glasses. Septima’s grief and rage were co-mingling in a heady mist in her mind and the drink was not helping her. As they sat around the table sharing stories, she mostly remained quiet. She knew her friends were only reminding her of the good things, of his strength, his bravery, his odd kindnesses. She wanted to remember the ways in which she had hated him from time to time.

She wanted to remember all the men she hated. All the people who had made her promises they couldn’t keep, promises they had no intention of keeping.

“Let’s go,” she ordered, standing up abruptly.

“Where?” Poppy asked, giving her friends a nervous look. She needn’t have bothered, Septima wasn’t about to be careless, she just needed to have a word with someone. There would be no one else around, she knew the castle would be almost completely deserted, only Filch and Hagrid still there in the last weeks of the holiday.

“Hogwarts. I’ve got to have a word with a portrait.”

She saw them give yet another look at each other, this time though, there wasn’t even a question or the beginnings of arguments. They gathered their cloaks, wished Aberforth well, and set off for the castle.

Septima stumbled up the steps, feeling the numbing effects of the drink, wishing it would have given her any of the giddy it had when she had been a girl of twenty. She’d really like to be reminded of what she had been at twenty, what she imagined her life would be.

“Hey, old man!” she slurred at Dumbledore’s empty frame after they made their way into the vacant Headmaster’s office. It seemed like years since they had laid him to rest, not the weeks that it had actually been. “I know you’re there. I know you have eyes and ears everywhere, even now, even in the grave!”

Her friends gasped, but didn’t say anything to stop her. She knew she was being incredibly disrespectful, but that was why she was there, to say all the things she’d never said while he was alive. Still, when he appeared in the frame, first hazy, like he was coming from a faraway place before he was there, just as twinkle-eyed and wise-looking as he always had, she stopped for a minute. How do you spit on the spirit of an old idol?

“Ms. Vector, how are you this fine evening?”

“Don’t you ‘Ms. Vector’ me like I was one of your students. I haven’t been one of those in decades.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right. You are much more to me than a mere student. Though, as you know, my students were always very important to me.”

“Oh, I know all about what was important to you, and what you cared about not at all.”

“Oh yes?”

“Alastor is dead!” she shouted, getting right to the point.

The twinkle was gone from Dumbledore’s eyes, replaced with sadness, not remorse, but sadness.

“I know. He died as he lived.”

“Bollocks!” she shouted, her rage spilling over, finally. She wanted to hurt him, even if he were nothing but paint and canvas, had no way of feeling like she did. She still wanted him to ache like she did. He didn’t respond.

“You promised.”

“Promised?”

“You took away our youth, our innocence, any hope of having a life away from war, away from evil.” She included all of her friends behind her in this. She could see them in the corner of her eye, close behind her, but not too close to stop her. They let her rage, so did Dumbledore. She loved them for it; hated him for it.

“We did everything you asked! We were told we were making our kind safe, were creating a better world for our children.” She laughed bitterly. “Our whole lives,” she snapped her fingers, “gone. Like that.

“Alastor believed in you! We all did. He gave you _everything_. And when the Dark Lord fell, when that Potter kid did what none of us could, songs were penned and praise heaped on an infant and meanwhile… meanwhile, Alastor had lost bits of himself all over Britain, we all had. The whole world sighed with relief and rejoiced and still he continued to do your bidding, to get his hands dirty rounding up the last of the vile and the deranged.”

She was losing steam, but she wasn’t finished. With tears rolling down her face unnoticed, she continued in a much lower voice. “And you knew, _knew_ he wasn’t well, knew he needed… needed… and you promised. You sat in my kitchen and you promised that he was done, that he could rest, get himself back together… we were supposed to… we were going to…”

She couldn’t go on. She studied Dumbledore’s frame to see if any of what she said had sunk in. He suddenly looked like he was painted with watercolors, blurred at the edges and sagging a bit. She didn’t know if that were the effect of her tears or his. For while she didn’t think portraits could really shed tears, she knew when he spoke with a catch in his throat that she had got through, had inflicted the painful guilt she had strived for.

“I know… I did… and I’m... I’m…”

She knew he wasn’t going to say it, wasn't going to apologize. She just didn’t realize until that moment; she didn’t really need him to anymore. She just needed to get that out. Get it all out. And suddenly, she was too tired to even stand. She slumped, but didn’t even get halfway to the ground before she was caught. By which of her friends, she didn’t know, though it felt like all of them were there holding her tight, weeping with her.

They had all lost so very much. But there, in that room, holding tight to people that meant more than family, and she knew that they hadn’t lost everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 2015's HoggyWartyXmas Exchange at Livejournal.


End file.
